


Every Time I Look In Your Eyes

by frausorge



Series: Bad Weather Friend [4]
Category: Fall Out Boy, Panic! at the Disco
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-10
Updated: 2014-01-10
Packaged: 2018-01-08 05:14:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1128757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frausorge/pseuds/frausorge
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's got that look tonight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Every Time I Look In Your Eyes

**Author's Note:**

> Set in 2007. Title from They Might Be Giants.

He's got that look tonight, the extra zing, the extra swing in his spinning and jumping and hell, in his very playing, that means they're going to fuck after the show. Brendon rocks on his heels and grins. 

"Are you stealing Pete tonight?" Ryan says behind him.

"It's my _turn_ , Ross," Brendon says, although of course there are no turns. It's a complete tossup who he'll want to hang out with on any given visit, unpredictable till they see how he's looking that day. "You can't mess with the order of the turns. The gods will get pissed and bad shit will happen to you and seven generations of your children."

Ryan is silent for a minute, watching the stage. Brendon looks over again too, enjoying the broad swath of gray underwear visible above his jeans as he contorts himself over his bass. That ass is so fully Brendon's for the fucking tonight. Brendon is looking forward to it more than is probably rational.

"Eh. Better you than me," Ryan says.

"Damn straight," Brendon says. Ryan rolls his eyes. Brendon reaches over and tugs on the hem of Ryan's vest, and Ryan breaks down and grins at him.

"Well, have a good time," Ryan says dryly.

"Oh, I'm planning on it," says Brendon.

 

It takes a good while after the guys come off stage for the shouting and showering and general commotion to settle down. Finally, though, Brendon manages to catch him alone in the bathroom. 

"Hey, boss," Brendon says.

He turns with a smirk. "I'm not your boss."

"Hey, baby."

"I'm not your baby."

"Hey, daddy."

"I'm not your daddy."

"Well, in that case," Brendon says, and crowds him back into a stall where they can start kissing. 

That whole routine isn't even really necessary anymore; these days Brendon can pretty much tell just by looking whether Pete will answer with a blank "hey", or whether he'll roll his eyes and launch into their script. But it's a tradition now, funnier each time they go through it - at least in Brendon's opinion, and if there's anything Brendon loves, it's pushing a joke to its breaking point and beyond.

Not that it started out as a joke. The first time, when Brendon said, "Hey, boss," to him at a post-show party in some tiny local dive, he snapped "I'm not your boss" so sharply that Brendon just stood there gaping. Then, before Brendon managed to say anything, he shook his head apologetically and turned on a smile. 

"I mean," he said, "don't think of me as your boss right now. In fact, don't even think of me as Pete. We're out on the town, we're having a good time, right? So just think of me as some guy you've met at a club."

Brendon narrowed his eyes, but he couldn't help smiling. "Ok?" he said.

He looked at Brendon for another minute and then leaned in slowly to Brendon's ear. "Think of me," he said, "as that really hot guy you just met. The guy you're gonna give the best fuck you've got in you."

"Can do," Brendon said thickly. 

And the funny thing is, it's not hard to remember at all. When he has that look about him, Brendon doesn't even see Pete Wentz, the label boss who signed them, the rock star Ryan reveres. All Brendon sees is _hot, hot, wants me,_ and Brendon wants right back.

 

The ride to the hotel takes a long time, longer than Brendon's dick cares for, anyway. The hand resting warm and heavy on Brendon's thigh has started to feel like a tease.

"Hey, did you guys bring along a new tech this time?" Brendon asks as a distraction. 

"No?" he says. "Same old crew, far as I know. Why, was someone messing with our stuff?"

"No, no. I just heard some chick talking on the phone in your dressing room, and I didn't recognize her voice, but she sounded so _Chicaaago_ -" Brendon has to break off there to defend against a rain of punches. He ends up with his wrists caught in a tight grip, giggling hard. "So who was she, then?"

A few breaths pass before the answer comes. "Friend of Joe's in for a visit, I think. But the real question is, what were you doing lurking around our dressing room, punk?"

"Nothing!" Brendon says. "Or, well. Nothing, after Marcus took the Super Soaker away from me." 

After that the wrestling starts in earnest. It doesn't exactly help Brendon's boner, but it does pass the rest of the time till the bus pulls to a halt.

 

When they finally get into the room, they don't waste any more time. "Strip," Brendon says, yanking off his own shirt and jeans, and then he finally, finally gets his hands on that ass. Brendon grabs some rough kisses, too, getting a little lost in the heat of them.

"Come on, fuck me," he says, breaking away.

"Where's your lube?" Brendon says.

Brendon gets him on his hands and knees, the way they like it best, and he must be as worked up as Brendon is, because he's groaning almost from Brendon's first thrust. They get a good rhythm going, working together. Brendon holds him by the hips, pushing in as deep as possible, and this, this is what Brendon was looking forward to all night.

"Fuck-" he gasps, faster than Brendon expected, "fuck, I gotta-"

"Yeah, do it," Brendon answers, equally short of breath.

He shifts and slumps forward enough to free a hand to jerk himself off. Brendon resettles his own weight and keeps going.

They're shaking the mattress, their skin slick with sweat, both of them making noise at every move. Brendon's right on the edge, fighting to hold on, and then his body bows and shudders under Brendon's hands.

Brendon bends forward with no rhythm at all and comes with a final shout.

 

"So how's Ryan these days?" he says. His chin is tucked against Brendon's chest, and he's drawing spirals on the outside of Brendon's thigh with two fingers.

Brendon laughs. "Still straight," he says lightly. "How's Patrick? Still clueless?"

There's no answering laugh. Brendon looks down, but can't see his face at all, just a sheaf of black hair.

"Dude, no way," Brendon says. "You finally landed Patrick? How are you not still holed up with him for the next million years?"

The circling hand stills. "We fucked one time," he says. "And then a couple days later he told me he was in love with someone else, and it wouldn't be fair to either of us to do it any more."

" _Motherfuck,_ " Brendon says feelingly.

"Mm," he says. "Yeah." His fingers slide over to curl around the base of Brendon's dick. "Hey, think you can go again?"

"Yes," Brendon says.

He swallows when Brendon comes, and then Brendon sits up and pushes him back and sucks his cock down till he comes too, in barely any more time than Brendon did. It's pretty damn awesome.

 

Later, though, when Brendon's in the bathroom washing off his face, he thinks about it some more, and there's something weird going on there. Because Brendon has hung out with Fall Out Boy, ok, he's spent a lot of time with them, both onstage and off. And he and Patrick may not be BFFs, but Brendon has absolutely seen who Patrick looks at and how - with the same worshipful gaze as Ryan, multiplied by a hundred suns of wanting - and Brendon would bet anything you care to name that he knows who Patrick's in love with. And it's Pete.

_Huh,_ Brendon thinks. 

He squeezes some paste onto the hotel toothbrush and watches himself in the mirror as he works it around his mouth.

 

Brendon wakes up with sunlight from the crack in the blinds hitting his shoulder, a warm streak on his skin. He stretches and rolls over, and then sits up all the way. 

A glance at the other pillow shows Brendon that he's still fast asleep, his hair crushed down over his forehead and his teeth just visible behind his slightly open lips. Brendon tugs his own pillow up behind his shoulders and leans back against the headboard, watching.

He wakes up the way he always does, eyes opening in one swoop, no blinking. He's still got that look - the zing look, the him look - and he grins when he sees Brendon. Brendon feels a flash of fierce gladness that Patrick is out of the picture.

"Oh my god, coffee," he says. He rolls out of bed naked and walks over to the machine on the counter, showing off again what is truly a very fine ass. Brendon watches till the filter is in place and the machine is percolating away. 

"Hey, boss," Brendon says then. 

He glances a little quizzically over his shoulder, yawning without covering his mouth. "I'm not your boss," he says.

"Hey, bitch."

"Not your bitch," he says, no longer bothering to turn.

"Hey, Pete," Brendon says. 

His head whips around with a scowl. 

Brendon keeps looking at him, though, trying to dig past that bleak face, willing him to understand. Brendon waits, and slowly, gradually, his eyes shift from angry to empty to uncertain. He swallows, tightens his lips, glances away, and then looks back at Brendon.

"I'm not Pete," he says.

"Yeah," Brendon says. "I'm starting to get that."

They keep on staring at each other. 

"So who the hell are you?" Brendon asks at last.

"My name is Jason," says Jason.


End file.
